Smoke and Mirrors
by LittleGreenBudgie
Summary: They were just laid-back evenings with good conversation and meaningless sex...yet those meetings might somehow teach a woman with a terminal illness and a man with a failed marriage the meaning of mortality, responsibility, and true friendship. GabeNaomi
1. Week One

August 1, 2020

Gabe showed up at her door looking remarkably well-groomed, at least by his flimsy standards. His unruly hair stuck up in a tangled mess, yet despite his usual sloppy ponytail, it was still damp from a shower—likely the first Gabe had taken in days—and his strong jaw was free of its usual stubble. Naomi smiled at his feeble efforts. After all, he still wore his rumpled old suit and the pair of scuffed-up shoes he fancied, and he still reeked of cigarette smoke. Not even his attempts to tidy up could erase that smell; it clung to his skin, his hair, his clothes, and she wrinkled her nose at the thought of it getting on her furniture. Gabe was a package deal, though; she couldn't just take his conversational skills and leave behind the chain smoking.

"Evening," he greeted, hefting a six-pack of beer. "Looks like I kept you waiting so long you went gray on me."

Naomi rolled her eyes at his jibe, but it had been years since comments on her hair had affected her; it had turned prematurely silver when she was still in college, a trait that ran in the Kimishima family. Instead of rising to the bait, she nodded and held the door open for him, letting him saunter into her apartment as if he owned the place. She chuckled under her breath and turned to latch the door behind him.

Naomi still wasn't sure if their meeting was a good idea, or even of what had possessed her to actually agree to it. She had met up with Gabe a week prior to pick up some papers, and somehow the ensuing conversation had led to…_this_. Her eyes flickered over to the lanky doctor as he leaned against the wall. He had been the one who had inspired theirpoorly thought-out plan to get together for good conversation, a few drinks, and casual sex, but for some reason she had agreed to it, and so he wasn't entirely to blame. Naomi was wholly unwilling to start up a real relationship with anyone, after all, and his motives didn't matter one bit. Gabe could stay detached from her, and that was all that mattered. And if he was married, well…

She glanced down at his conspicuously bare ring finger and forcibly banished those thoughts from her mind. It wasn't her business.

He quirked an eyebrow, catching her look.

"You sure you're okay with this?" he asked. "I won't be upset if you're not."

"Sit anywhere you want. I'll get a bottle opener," Naomi replied. It wasn't her job to worry over his life or the problems therein. If he could let her faults go without comment, she could at least afford to show him the same courtesy.

Naomi returned from the kitchen to find Gabe sprawled out on her white couch with his shoes off and his feet up on the armrest. He cracked open one eye, flashed her a lazy grin, and folded his arms behind his head, looking for all the world like a great cat sunning himself. An unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth, completing his carefree look.

"You're not going to light that," she said flatly. Naomi didn't think that he actually would have, but given his demonstrated lack of respect for her property, it was best not to risk it. He smoked in his office at Resurgam First Care, after all, and that was technically illegal.

He shrugged as if he'd expected it and pocketed his tarnished metal lighter. Instead, Gabe reached for the carton of beer he'd set on the table, wordlessly taking the bottle opener out of her hand.

"This is good stuff," he remarked as he took a deep drink. "Maria recommended it. You remember Maria, right?"

"Your emergency physician friend with the bad temper? Yes, I think I do," Naomi replied, taking a seat in her favorite stiff-backed armchair. She sat with her legs crossed primly and her hands folded in her lap, posture perfect, as her mother had drilled into her head since she was little. Naomi popped the top off of her beverage and tentatively took a sip—she didn't drink much, but in the interest of being social, she'd give it a shot. True to Gabe's word, it was more than passable, and she mentally congratulated Maria on her taste.

"That's the one," Gabe confirmed with a nod. "What about your coworkers? I imagine those morticians are _real_ lively."

She ignored his sarcasm, saying, "One of the new pathologists lost an earring in a corpse's chest cavity. You should have seen the look on Little Guy's face when I asked for an analysis on it."

"What kind of idiot goes by Little Guy?"

Naomi stifled a smile, remembering that the rest of the world knew nothing of her ongoing banter with her assistant.

"It's what I call him. He's a newly-assigned coworker of mine. From…"

Naomi hesitated. She still couldn't say "Delphi" without flinching, even two years after she'd left the ranks of that nightmarish organization. Little Guy had been nothing more than a sardonic chauffeur to her in those days. He hadn't seemed like the sort to join the ruthless medical terrorists of Delphi…but neither was she, and still Naomi had ended up working with them. She wished more than anything that she had not, but she had wanted so, so badly to continue operating after her license to practice was revoked, and Delphi had offered her a new name and a chance to help patients again. She hadn't been able to resist their siren song, and she still dealt with the consequences of that poor decision.

"From…?" Gabe prompted.

"The FBI," she muttered. It was the truth, but certainly not what she had intended to say. More than just her bad memories held her back. She may have been arrested for her involvement with Delphi, but Little Guy had apparently gotten away and started a new life for himself. No matter what her opinion of him was, she couldn't betray him so easily, not when he was trying to start over clean.

"Ah, a government brat," he snorted. "Just ditch him. All that stupid red tape kills progress."

"You never did care about the rules," Naomi remarked. "Just be glad you haven't been fired yet."

The diagnostician shrugged and took her warning in stride, ignoring it as she knew he ignored all cautionary words; to him, regulations were little more than fancy names for things that other people were supposed to follow. She, in turn, cared far more for protocol than he did, but even Naomi had to admit that the Cumberland Institute of Forensic Medicine had gotten more uptight since she had been recruited for the FBI cases.

"Besides those idiots, have you been doing well?" Gabe asked.

"As well as a terminally ill woman can," she replied with a shrug.

"…I'm sorry," he sighed, sitting up. There wasn't a hint of discomfort on his face or in his voice, but all the same she suspected that he had been sobered by his words; his posture was stiff and awkward, long legs splayed uncomfortably and shoulders bowed.

He fiddled nervously with his lighter as he waited for her to respond.

"I'm going to die, Gabriel. You're supposed to be a doctor—be professional. There's no point wasting time crying over it," she said. It bothered Naomi that cool, unflappable Gabe would skirt around the issue like everyone else did. It was her life; if she wasn't undone by her own mortality, then no one else should be. She had come to terms with her imminent death in a few short, brutal days after diagnosis, days spent shell-shocked and futilely trying to go through the motions of regular life while she dreaded the numb, sleepless nights and the sobbing fits. That had been months ago, though; Naomi had ceased to rail against her fate. Death came to everyone at one point or another—as her career viciously reminded her—and whether she died in twenty days or in twenty years wasn't an issue anymore.

She could tell from the scowl on his face that Gabe didn't like her calm acceptance one bit. The scruffy man didn't press the issue, however. Perhaps he understood better than she had initially thought—after all, he had met others at the thin line between life and death, pulling them to one side or the other with gun or scalpel in hand. Naomi didn't know much about his military days, for Gabe grew uncharacteristically terse when the topic came up, but she knew that he had come almost as close to death as she was, and so she accepted his unease with less irritation than she would have from another.

She continued to stare him down, waiting for a response.

"Fair enough," he finally agreed. Naomi knew that he wouldn't give up entirely; he was a doctor first and foremost and she had never seen Gabe give up on a life, even one as hopelessly doomed as hers was. She had been given a respite from his dogged harping for the moment, though, and that was good enough for her.

"So tell me," Gabe began, nudging the conversation onto a new topic. "What symptoms have manifested thus far?"

"Can't you leave the diagnoses at the office?" she grumbled.

"I'm not diagnosing you. We already know what you have, right? I just don't want us ending up in an avoidable emergency because of something you didn't tell me," he countered.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't comment further. Naomi couldn't blame him for his inability to separate work from his personal life—medicine was a difficult field to work in, especially for them. Most grew detached from it, but Gabe had traded his family and she had traded her morals for the hospital. It played tricks on their minds, crept into day-to-day life, entwining itself with their personalities until even time off was dominated by the hospital. She still dreamt of her surgeon days, waking up breathless with the remembered smell of disinfectant and blood in her nose, the image of stark ivory ribs and pulsating organs branded on the backs of her eyelids. The sound of an ambulance siren sent adrenaline pumping through her veins and her hands reaching for a surgical mask that she wouldn't find.

With those thoughts on her mind, it was too hard to begrudge Gabe his questions, and so she gave in and replied:

"It's nothing serious: trembling fingertips, weight loss, minor dizziness."

"Yeah, I thought you looked thinner," he commented with a nod.

"Most women would take that as a compliment," Naomi returned, but she knew what he meant—she had always been on the slender side, and with her recent weight loss, she was beginning to look sickly. "My health shouldn't affect things any more than your bad lungs will."

Gabe shrugged, not bothering to deny it. The cigarette in his mouth more than spoke for him.

"What about your family? How is your son doing?" she asked.

"Lisa's coming by tomorrow to pick up Joshua's things. I don't know why I even still had them. The kid hasn't been by in months."

Naomi grimaced, fighting to bite back her disgust. She still had fond memories of her own parents and the childhood she'd had. Her father used to read to her on warm evenings as the fire burned low and she sat at his feet, her tiny hands fisted in their Akita Inu's ginger fur and her eyes wide with rapt attention. Those old detective stories and her mother's medical dramas fed her young fascination with medicine, molding her into the person she would become. Naomi had religiously kept in contact with her family until their deaths, and seeing Gabe lackadaisically ignore his son hurt her more than she'd admit. She clamped her mouth shut, though, as he had on the issue of her upcoming death. It wasn't any of her business.

Instead, she made an indistinct, noncommittal noise that Gabe was free to interpret however he wished.

"Yeah. Guess she thinks I don't need it. She's probably right—the kid's been with her or the hospital so long I doubt he even remembers me," Gabe continued.

"He's in the hospital? Why?"

"Didn't I tell you? He's pretty sickly; this time it's some ulcers that are going to be treated. It'll be a simple endoscopic procedure, so he shouldn't be in long, but Tomoe wants to keep her eye on him in case any complications develop," he explained. Catching Naomi's blank stare, he added, "Tomoe Tachibana? You know, our endoscopist? You'll have to meet her sometime—she's from Japan, like you."

"Where, exactly?" Naomi asked, curious. News from her home country was always welcome, especially given that she could never, ever go back. That thought hurt her every time it surfaced. America was a fine country, and one that had granted her clemency for her actions and a chance to practice medicine again, but it wasn't where she belonged. She still dreamed in Japanese most nights, even though she hadn't carried on a conversation in the language since before she was exiled from the country. At heart, she still belonged there.

"Koga, I think. Is that anywhere near your old stomping grounds? You were in Kyoto, right?"

"Kyushu," she corrected wistfully. "Okinawa, to be precise."

"It's all the same to me," Gabe muttered. "But I'll tell her to drop you a line, if you want. She's got nothing else lined up for next week beyond Joshua's surgery."

"Thank you. But do you worry for Joshua?"

"Nah. Tomoe's a top-notch surgeon. The kid'll be fine," he responded. "Although I've gotta say, he definitely didn't get my toughness."

"Or your attitude."

"I'd kill him myself if he had my attitude," he chuckled, his laugh a raspy half-cough. "The world only needs one Gabriel Cunningham."

"I'm not going to argue with that," she teased.

She caught herself smiling at his light jokes despite the solemnity of their discussions. Removed from the urgency of the workplace, his cynical humor made for a truly laid-back atmosphere. Naomi outright grinned as he feigned offense at her comment, childishly sticking his tongue out at her.

The green glow of the clock above the TV caught her eye—it was well past midnight. She started, wondering just how she'd lost track of time so easily. A glance at her coffee table provided the answer; six empty bottles vied for space along the polished surface, and she knew they weren't all Gabe's.

He followed her eyes and quizzically turned to face her.

"Hey, what's the matter? The night's still young."

"Ten years ago, I would have agreed with you," she sardonically replied, shaking her head.

"What, do you want me to go?" Gabe questioned, sitting up. "I mean, I had a great time, don't get me wrong, but…"

Naomi rolled her eyes.

"I'm not chasing you out yet. I didn't just invite you here for drinks, you know," she assured.

He grinned roguishly and stretched, drawing himself to his feet and quirking an eyebrow in silent invitation. Naomi smiled in response, blue eyes mischievous, and stood. Gabe was at her side in an instant, his hand on her hip.

"Then let's get this party started," he purred.

"I hope you brought a toothbrush, because you're not using mine."

"You're gonna harp about my breath?" Gabe demanded, his smile replaced by a look of utter puzzlement. "If you're gonna kill the mood, at least have a good reason for it."

She eyed him severely, pausing to think of a legitimate concern. Gabe apparently took her silence as having no further objections, though, and he kissed her on the temple, the cheek, the lips. Naomi pulled back, turning her head to the side to force him to listen to her.

"What about STIs?" Naomi asked. Given his marriage and his intelligence, she didn't honestly believe that he had anything, but Gabe needed to cool his heels and think things through. This wasn't just fun and games for her, and if he didn't take things seriously, she would turn him out on the street in a heartbeat.

"Come on, this is me. I'm clean. What do you have to worry about?" he questioned indignantly.

"I'm not too old to get pregnant," the forensic investigator bluntly stated.

Gabe's eyebrows shot up, before he made a low, pained noise and muttered, "I've had surgery," in a tight voice.

"…Well. I suppose that's one way to answer that," Naomi agreed, taking him by the hand and leading him towards the bedroom. Discomfort forgotten, the diagnostician grinned ear to ear and followed without further comment.

Gabe lay at her side, his arm thrown haphazardly across her bare chest and his nose buried in her hair. His labored breathing was heavy and hot on Naomi's neck, kicking up wisps of silver hair that tickled her cheek and made her wish she still had it pulled back. In lieu of that, she rolled over to face him. The man's eyes were slivers of warm toffee and he wore nothing more than a goofy grin. Naomi arched an eyebrow, a contented smile on her lips, and she nestled deeper into the blankets.

"That just made my stressful week wholly worthwhile," he laughed, fingertips languidly running over her sides. She made a hushed noise of agreement, her eyes fluttering shut with a soft moan.

"Hate to be a killjoy, but you weren't planning on kicking me out anytime soon, were you?" he asked.

"Mm, I don't really care."

"Fantastic. I'll grab a smoke and be right back," Gabe mumbled, reluctantly rolling out of bed. She opened her eyes as he withdrew his hand, only to see him yawn and stretch. From the way he stumbled about, eyelids fluttering, he was fighting to stay awake, like an old lion attempting to shake off the effects of a tranquilizer dart.

"If you're smoking, you're leaving," Naomi reminded him.

He let out an aggravated groan.

"Great. I hate driving home," Gabe sighed as he clumsily pulled on his underwear. He glared petulantly at where his blazer lay in the corner. "I hate getting dressed, too."

She rolled her eyes.

"You could avoid both and just lay off the cigarettes for one night," the woman returned, shutting her eyes and trying to ignore his grousing.

"Very funny," he growled. "I'd rather you shot me. Go on, right between the eyes here. If that's all, I'll grab a smoke and go."

"What, you aren't even going to say goodbye?" she teased, although the jibe lacked any real bite.

"We're on for the same time next week, right?"

"If nothing else comes up," Naomi agreed.

"Well, I'll see you then. Later."

She sighed at his behavior, but soon realized that she was going to have to lock the door behind him. Naomi stubbornly rolled over and tried to ignore it. She was warm and comfortable in bed, and inwardly cursed at Gabe for forcing her to get up. It wasn't his fault, of course, and she knew it—he didn't have a key or any way to lock up when he left. Some part of her still blamed him and his damnable smoking habit for making her have to stumble in the dark towards the door, shivering at the touch of freezing cold linoleum on her bare feet.

Next she saw him, she'd give him a piece of her mind.


	2. Week Two

August 8, 2020

Gabe knocked on her door twenty minutes after he was supposed to have shown up. She opened it with a sharp word on her tongue, but swallowed her comment upon seeing him; he looked fresh off a shift at Resurgam. His hospital-mandated white coat hugged his thin body and he smelled strongly of disinfectant, although it couldn't wholly overpower his usual smoky smell, and his stethoscope was still looped around his neck as if he'd simply forgotten about it. Despite his lack of punctuality, though, he had remembered to shower and shave, his dark eyes bright and awake. He greeted her with a grin and a lazy wave, a pack of beer held firmly in one hand.

"Sorry I'm late," he began, offering an apologetic toss of his shoulders. "Esha dumped a buttload of paperwork on me for that blasted RONI system. She said it 'had to be done immediately', even though I _know_ she's just trying to get me back for badmouthing the medical conference she wants me to attend."

"I wouldn't think you, of all people, would complain about time off," she commented as she ushered him in.

"Conferences are useless and I actually like my job. You know, except the paperwork," Gabe grumbled, flopping down on her sofa. Despite his griping, he stretched out and languidly reached for the bottle opener. He took a drink before continuing, "So that's how myweek's been. How's work been treating you?"

"Well, I'm finally getting used to all of these ridiculous FBI agents running around CIFM," she replied. The doctor's smile was crooked, as if he was so used to grinning around a cigarette that his lips were permanently fixed in that lopsided state even without one.

"Even the little guy?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Naomi paused, mulling it over. It was interesting to have a partner constantly jabbering at her, for she was used to working in silence, wrapped up in her own tangents, making connections and following clues. Her own mind was her only company before _he_ came along. Little Guy's constant musings, which he couldn't seem to keep to himself, broke her train of thought without fail, and his nonstop questions threw her off her stride. He didn't understand how her mind or her career worked, and his clumsy attempts to keep up with Naomi only served to set her on edge.

Despite that, he certainly expedited cases; his nearly bottomless of chemistry and weaponry saved her many a trip to the lab technicians. Little Guy was agreeable and friendly, as well, although his casual joking got on her nerves. At the very least, he didn't get offended by Naomi's sharp tongue, a trait she couldn't value highly enough; there was a good reason that the lab personnel preferred to go through him rather than talk to her directly.

"Yes, even Little Guy," she decided. "Although I swear he has a complete inability to work with me."

"So, what, sort of like Maria? I mean, yeah, there's no way he's _that_ touchy, but…"

"Hardly. No, he's the poster child for mild-mannered and well-behaved. He's just…easily flustered, I suppose. Too emotionally involved with both the cases and his partners."

Gabe rubbed at his jaw as if in thought.

"Sounds like some of the interns. Those kids should either grow up or quit. Medicine doesn't tolerate indecisive idealists," he muttered.

Naomi made a face. She remembered her own intern days, of course, and she would voluntarily cut off a limb rather than go back to them. She had spent that time fighting some of the worst conditions of her life, barely seeing actual surgery, and getting stuck with managing paperwork that the higher-ups didn't feel like doing. The residents had constantly harassed both her and the other interns, and it seemed that no matter what she did, it was never good enough for them. It left her wondering just how many hours she could put up with it when she had little more than thirty minutes of sleep under her belt and a stomach roaring with hunger, the cup of noodles she had scarfed down at breakfast a distant memory. The whole group of interns had been despondent wrecks by the end of their shifts, tired of ferrying test results across the hospital and dealing with the rest of the scut. Naomi had nearly quit medicine during that year, as had even the most determined of the group, but she had gritted her teeth and plowed through it, "It'll all be over soon" her personal mantra.

"You're too hard on them," she reprimanded. "Surely you remember your time as an intern. Or was the great Gabriel Cunningham promoted straight to specialist?"

"Course I was an intern," Gabe returned with a scowl. "And I am _not _too hard on them. If I was that much of an idiot then, I deserved the treatment I got. But I know for a fact that I didn't cry or puke over my first operation, so there."

She had the sneaking suspicion that he was lying through his teeth; although his face was perfectly set in a look of indifference, he toyed with his lighter and gnawed furiously on the end of a cigarette. He raised an eyebrow at her stare, but didn't say anything, as if waiting to see if she would call him out on it.

She wasn't willing to confront him. Not because she feared conflict or even because she didn't want to anger him, but because his personal business was just that: personal. She was his friend and, as of the present, his lover, but she wasn't there to judge and condemn him. Naomi still lived under the shadow of her own terrible decisions and it would be hypocritical to bring up his.

"By your standards, your emergency physician friend should have found another job," Naomi finally said.

He shook his head in response.

"Oh yeah, she's irritable, but Maria's the best damn paramedic I've ever seen. I wouldn't trade her. Besides, she could drink us both under the table, and a friend like _that _is hard to find."

"Out-drink you? I doubt it," Naomi chuckled skeptically.

"Yeah, I did, too, until I woke up after a friendly contest with her to find Hank holding my head over the toilet," he muttered, grimacing. "Didn't even remember heading back to his place."

"You should be too old that make that sort of a blunder," she scolded.

"For one, she was asking for it, and for two, our nights on the town are usually more casual. Maria, Emma, Darnell, and I go out once or twice a week. You should come with us. It'd be fun," he offered.

"I'll pass," she replied. It wasn't hard to imagine Gabe out drinking, though, a glass of cheap whiskey in front of him and a cigarette in his mouth. He'd be slouched over the bar, trading scathing remarks with his coworkers and too unconcerned to curb Maria's challenges to arm-wrestle half the patrons. She smiled faintly at the thought. It sounded like a decent enough time, but Naomi had never cared for the raucousness or the smell of public drinking establishments and she wasn't going to start frequenting them just to see her friends at Resurgam.

"At least now I know why you're never home."

He shrugged, clearly nonplussed.

"Hey, Lisa used to go out with me. It's not my fault that she gave up on our nights out, right? The two of us used to chill with my old pals all the time. Then she just…stopped coming."

"Any particular reason?"

"Beats me. She didn't like leaving a babysitter or something stupid," he huffed.

Naomi nearly choked on her beer. She spent several stunned moments hacking and coughing in a manner that almost made Gabe's smoker's lung sound healthy. Even if she could have replied, there was nothing she could say to _that_. He had abandoned his young son to drink, and expressed resentment towards his wife for her unwillingness to do the same. He needed to grow up for once in his life—he wasn't a college kid with nothing more than classes to worry about anymore. Gabe was supposed to be a parent, a husband, a productive member of society…anything but the jaded man he was.

"That's…unfortunate," Naomi said at last. Although it was the truth, she didn't mean it in the way she knew he would take it.

"Sure was. Lisa pulls this on me right after my unit returned home, to boot," the doctor grumbled, but his voice cracked as he mentioned the military. Out came that dirty old Zippo, clicking noisily as he flicked it open and shut. There was some sort of engraving on it, but between the grime and Gabe's fingers getting in the way, she couldn't make it out. Naomi presumed it was his name and thus didn't worry about it; she was more concerned by the fact that he had it out to begin with.

He caught her stare and stuffed the lighter back in his pocket, instead turning to grab a beer. Gabe took a long drink, his face set back in that perfect mask of uncaring, his lips twitching in a half-smile.

"Hey, no harm, no foul, right? I've got the guys here to hang out with, even if Hank never really comes with us. The big guy's too uptight."

"Perhaps you're too laid-back," she countered.

"Until I'm a homeless vagrant, I'm fine with being laid-back. And hey—if I wasn't, you wouldn't even have me here, right?"

Naomi grudgingly conceded the point—his stone-cold apathy was indeed the biggest reason why it was him sprawled on her couch instead of someone who didn't know her secrets. She knew she could have easily found another partner; Naomi was not so critical of herself that she would dismiss her own good looks. Even with her illness, she retained the eye-catching beauty that genetics had granted her, although any coloration she'd once possessed had faded into a ghostly paleness that no amount of time outdoors could combat.

"You say that like you wouldn't agree to the same arrangement with someone else," she returned. "Maria, perhaps. You seem to like her well enough."

He spat out a mouthful of beer, turning to face her incredulously.

"What's the problem?" Naomi asked, perplexed.

"I'm almost old enough to be her father!" Gabe spluttered. "And she's not my type. I don't go for chicks that would beat me black and blue for hitting on 'em."

Naomi leaned back, arms crossed across her chest.

"Isn't she only two years my junior?" she asked. His indignation was entirely too ridiculous for a man who would comment on the attractiveness of a college student without pausing. True, he had known Maria since she was just an intern, but his irritability at her joke was still uncalled for.

"So? She acts like she hasn't aged a day since high school. You're more mature."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere," the medical examiner chastised, although she agreed with him; personality mattered far more to her than age did. The seven year gap between them didn't bother her one bit.

"Flattery might not, but I can put my tongue to good use in another manner, if you'd prefer," he suggested, winking flirtatiously.

Naomi rolled her eyes at his poor come-on, but stood anyway. There was little point in debating their opinions on the matter, since neither of them had concerns about the other's age, and so she resigned herself to simply go along with it. Gabe, in turn, followed her movements hungrily, his eyes intense and focused. He padded out of the room with her at his heels, kicked the door shut behind them, and let his white coat fall to the floor.

Naomi panted for breath, the rise and fall of her narrow chest mimicking Gabe's rapid gasps. His face was flushed from the exertion, but he still tiredly grinned at her, pressing himself a little closer. She would almost say that his halfhearted attempts at cuddling were for his benefit rather than hers; Naomi didn't care either way, but Gabe seemed insistent on it, sulking when she shrugged off the arm he threw over her.

He didn't speak a word, seemingly content to just lay there for the moment. Despite the uncomfortable feeling of her sweat-damp hair sticking to the back of her neck, she shared the sentiment. It was too much effort to do anything more.

Eventually, though, Gabe fell to tossing and turning so much that she snapped at him. The diagnostician muttered an apology and stumbled out of bed with a string of muffled curses.

"Smoking again?" Naomi asked groggily.

He nodded wordlessly in reply, groping blindly in the dark to separate his clothes from hers.

"I cannot fathom why you even like the things," she grumbled.

"They keep me sane," he responded. "Yeah, they're little packages of disease, but hey, I'm tough."

The remark was punctuated with a hoarse cough that said he was anything but. He tugged his shirt over his head with another curse and threw his tie around his neck, unwilling to fumble with the knot in his current state of mind.

She sighed and sat up as well, ready to lock up immediately behind him. The air was stiflingly warm and smelled overpoweringly of sweat, smoke, and sex, although Gabe didn't seem to notice. He was more preoccupied with getting his blazer's buttons to cooperate than he was with anything else.

He lifted his shaggy head and glanced over at her.

"You don't have to get up."

"I do if you can't lock the door," Naomi sighed.

"Get a key made," he suggested. "Then I can close up shop and you can catch some Z's."

"Don't you think that's getting too familiar?"

"It's just a key," Gabe said, shrugging. "If you're not okay with it, fine. But if you won't make one just because you think it means something, well, that's ridiculous."

"…I'll think about it," she murmured. He was right, of course—technically, a key was just a piece of metal. Getting worked up over it was foolish and emotional. All the same, giving anyone unrestricted access to her home felt downright alien, even if it was just Gabe.

"See you next week," he promised, staggering out the door.

She followed him out, unwilling to spend more than the absolute minimum time up and about. Naomi was exhausted and frankly didn't want to put up with him right then.

In her barely-coherent state, her usual grace deserted her; she stubbed her toe on the edge of the end table, emitting a low hiss of pain as she pawed for the light switch. From ahead of her, Gabe barely stifled a snicker. Naomi sent a fierce glare in his direction, but by the time the lights were on, he was already out the door.

It was around then that she decided that she would definitely get a copy of her house key made.


	3. Week Three

August 15, 2020

Gabe turned up on her doorstep looking like he'd woken from a nap on his office couch scant minutes beforehand. His unruly hair stuck up in clumps and his ponytail was even more scraggly than usual. That suit of his was wrinkled and clearly hadn't seen an iron in days, and his tie was so loose he might as well not even have bothered. He greeted her with a half-smile on his stubbly jaw. Naomi frowned in reply. They were barely three weeks into their meetings and by all appearances he had already given up on putting in any effort whatsoever. She, in contrast, had showered, fixed her hair, and reapplied her make-up, keeping herself looking as presentable as she did before important meetings. Her apartment was, of course, equally immaculate.

"Hey," he yawned, the clang of glass bottles punctuating his words. "Got something different this time. It's from Darnell. I think it's European, so it should be pretty good, yeah?"

"You smell like an ashtray," Naomi commented caustically.

"What bit you?" he demanded, scowling. She blocked the door with her body as he moved to enter, eyeing him coldly.

"I thought you were supposed to shower before coming over. You _know_ I don't like that smell getting on my furniture."

"I forgot. Can't you just let it slide this time?"

Naomi sighed, but conceded that there was no point in arguing; he was already there and he couldn't go back and fix it. She grudgingly dismissed the issue rather than waste both of their time and stood back, holding the door open for him. He, in turn, made a beeline for the sofa, which he carelessly threw his weight onto. The couch's creak of protest left her wincing and silently thanking that Gabe was as skinny as he was.

"So," he began, the word drawn out by another jaw-popping yawn. "Been living the good life?"

"I'm well-rested, which is better than can be said for some people," Naomi returned, still irritated at him despite her decision to let the issue go.

He rolled his eyes, replying, "Resurgam doesn't work without me. After all the worrying I did over a patient, I'd say I'm entitled to some good old-fashioned R and R."

"Your patients are getting to you? Gabe, you're going soft," she chided.

"I am not," he indignantly replied. "Anyone would've been worried—he has dilated cardiomyopathy, so no matter _how _much of a pain-in-the-ass he is or _how _any other doctor would have dumped his fat butt on the curb, he practically has a foot in the grave."

"And here I thought your worry for me was special," Naomi teased.

"Of course you're different," he replied. "You're no patient of mine. I'm not legally required to help you or give a damn about you, but…"

He broke off, embarrassed, as if unwilling to admit any sort of affection for her. Naomi understood him anyway. The two of them had to stick together, old friends who knew things about each other that they didn't tell anyone. Gabe might not be devastated when she died, but he would be most certainly be upset, and that was enough to touch her.

She smiled sadly, but she couldn't let it get to her, and so she forced a joking grin for both of their sakes'.

"You're still going soft."

He arched an eyebrow, but Gabe was quick on the draw and followed her lead, just as unwilling to let their conversation die.

"Yeah, yeah. Speaking of softies, how's Little Guy doing?"

The investigator rolled her eyes.

"He's just as cheery as always. But with all your insistence on asking, I'd almost say you're jealous," she remarked.

He snorted. It was a poor jibe, given Gabe's apathy, but it was the best joke she could come up with off the top of her head.

"Oh, sure. The married man's jealous of his lover's dorky coworker," he dryly chuckled.

"You should be," she returned, trying to fight down her shiver of revulsion. It was easy to forget that he was married sometimes, given his too-casual mentions of his wife and son. She didn't terribly care that he cheated on Lisa to be there, or that half of the blame therein fell on her; it was Gabe's decision, and _she_ was not the married one. Still, she couldn't help but wonder how little Joshua would take it if he found out, and that thought was enough to make her uneasy.

She shook it from her mind, chiding herself for her paranoia.

"Why would I be jealous of him? By all accounts, he's an utter spaz."

"Well, he's cuter than you," she teased.

"Cuter than me?" he echoed, feigning hurt. "What is he, a male model?"

"He showers every day, for starters," Naomi shot back. "And he has big blue eyes and blond hair and a musculature you'd kill for."

It wasn't exactly true; Little Guy was almost as skinny as she was, and all of the FBI training in the world couldn't put an ounce of muscle on his wiry frame. His eyes had the color and warmth of glacial ice and his hair was a tousled mess, much like Gabe's was. The agent was attractive—she wouldn't deny that—but she most certainly fudged the facts a little for the purpose of irritating her friend. From the skeptical look on Gabe's face, he knew it, too.

All the same, Gabe good-naturedly rolled his eyes, playing along.

"And he smells like rose petals and can cook like a dream. He also loves classical music, chick flicks, and taking long walks on the beach," he joked. "He still can't compare to _this_."

He gestured to himself with a laugh that she wholeheartedly shared in.

"You know I was only kidding."

"Oh, I know," he replied, tone conversational. "I'm just making sure _you _do. Wouldn't do to have you getting attached to him, huh?"

"Please. I'm better than that," Naomi reminded him.

He shrugged, acknowledging it as the truth, and opened another beer.

"I don't know what Darnell was thinking. This stuff tastes like piss," Gabe grumbled as he took another drink. "What kind of an idiot gives this as a gift?"

"You're still drinking it, so it can't be too bad," she remarked, opening one of her own. Naomi gagged at the bitter taste, and she almost immediately put it back down, causing Gabe to smirk.

"I take that as 'You were absolutely right, oh great Dr. Cunningham'," he replied with a laugh.

"I haven't drunk much in my life," Naomi admitted.

"Yeah, for some reason I don't see you as the type to get wasted in college."

She arched an eyebrow incredulously in reply. Her college life had been dominated by studying, all of her textbooks highlighted and dotted with sticky notes, her cramped handwriting filling the margins. Mediocrity had not been an option; Naomi sought to be the top of her class, full of ambition even then. Now, of course, she wanted to simply get her job done before death's jaws tore the life from her, but in those days she had been a determined young woman who was going somewhere in life. She hadn't known that she carried the Healing Touch or that it would get her forcibly removed from her home country, hadn't known that she would die before she was forty, hadn't known that she would end up investigating deaths rather than preventing them. Naomi had simply looked to the bright future and greeted it with a smile. She missed those days sometimes.

Gabe returned her wistful smile with a grin of his own and lifted his beer in a mock-toast.

"Then we've got lots of experiences to make up for. Here's to cheap booze and one night stands!"

"I wouldn't call it a one night stand when we're on Round Three," she cheekily returned, inwardly wondering how he had even passed college with a life like that. Granted, it was no surprise that Gabe had loved partying—he still had too much of a fondness for alcohol and company. Even so, she had gone to school in Okinawa. That laid-back university experience of his was entirely foreign to her in a way that much of the rest of American culture no longer was. Still, from the way he'd aced medical school, he'd clearly had a passion for medicine and had worked to get there despite his careless attitude.

Looking at him now, staring unconcernedly into his drink and caring not a whit for his wife or young son, Naomi had to ask herself just what had gone wrong in his life.

"True enough," he conceded. "But hey, you're sexy and not tied down. I'm sure you've had your share of them before, right?"

"They're not really my thing, actually," she replied, shrugging. "I always preferred committed relationships."

Gabe's eyebrows rose to his hairline and he eyed her skeptically.

"Then why'd you even agree to _this_?" he demanded, gesturing vaguely towards himself.

"This is different," the medical examiner said simply. She was conscious of the weight of the duplicate key in her pocket, the one that she only intended to give him simply _because _this was different. It wasn't a serious relationship where it would mean anything, as he had reminded her. Theirs was an odd sort of deal where normal social mores and norms didn't apply; the sex meant nothing to her at all, but she appreciated the chance to wind down after the week was over.

"It sure is," he agreed. "I bet you don't usually spend your time in the company of a guy like me."

"No, my work usually doesn't accept 'guys like you'. It's mostly just quiet pathologists with morbid senses of humor, dogged police officers who ask too many questions, et cetera."

"Right, you're still doing the government's busy work. Sucks to be you," he chuckled.

"If my job is 'busy work', I cringe to think of what yours is," she acerbically returned.

"Hey, I'd almost trade you. You get to spend most of the day by yourself. My office practically has a revolving door between pushy patients and the staff," he grumbled. "Makes me look forward to coming here and kicking back. No paperwork, no responsibility…just you and me."

Naomi grinned, although his words troubled her. They were adults—responsibility wasn't something he could just flick on or off like a light switch. Gabe didn't seem to care, if the way he stood in front of her with an inviting smile was any indication. He held out a hand to help her up, which she took, filing her worries away for later.

For now, her biggest concern was the sandpaper feel of his stubble as he kissed her.

Naomi slowly brought up a hand to wipe the sweat off of her brow. Beside her, Gabe wheezed for breath, occasionally letting out a painful-sounding cough. He didn't complain, though; instead, he sleepily looked over at her, his wild hair free of its usual tie and haloing his face with a messy mane. She returned his look with a tired smile that sparked a lopsided grin from him. The thin sheets stuck uncomfortably to her skin, but the lightheadedness Naomi felt prevented her from caring. She wasn't sure if it was her illness or her general lack of physical fitness that left her breathless and made the ceiling tilt dangerously above her.

He heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"I'm beat," he murmured, voice scratchy and a wide yawn garbling his words. Gabe moved to rest his head on her shoulder, lightly pressing his lips to her collarbone and throwing his arm across her. Naomi was unpleasantly warm, but his clumsy affection was endearing and she couldn't quite bring herself to shake him off.

"What's the matter, not as young as you used to be?"

"I'm thirty eight. Believe me, I haven't been young in years," he grumbled.

She chuckled sleepily at his frank answer.

"You can't be a college kid forever."

"Wouldn't want to be, believe me," he replied with a low snicker. "I don't get locked out of the dorm by my idiot roommate or wake up hungover and an hour late for class."

"That reminds me—I had that key made," Naomi remarked. "It's in my coat pocket. I'm sorry I didn't give it to you earlier."

"Wow, kicking me out so soon? That's cold," he teased, but he was already getting up. Gabe rubbed tiredly at his eyes, shoulders shaking with a wet, painful-sounding cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, grimacing.

"Well, you hog the covers," she replied jokingly, following his uncoordinated movements with her eyes. Watching Gabe get dressed was inherently comedic, as he seemed to find the world's greatest difficulty in buttoning his shirt and pulling on socks. His utter lack of dexterity extended further than Naomi could just chalk up to sleepiness and a little liquor—he used to be a surgeon, after all, so buttons should not have presented such a challenge to him. Yet he struggled with the laces on his shoes and the zipper on his pants, muttering a string of curses under his breath before deciding to just leave his shirt open.

"I'll catch you later," he said, turning to leave.

"Goodbye," Naomi murmured from her place in bed. She shut her eyes, tracking his movements by sound alone until even his footsteps had faded, leaving her to sleep off her prior dizzy spell and her sluggishness.

With so much of her own to deal with, she could worry about Gabe later.


	4. Week Four

August 22, 2020

Naomi was straightening up the bookcase in the back of her apartment when she heard the doorknob turn. Adrenaline flooded her body as she instinctively drew her handgun, her mind feeding her memories of the electrician's attempted assault a month prior. Her hand shook so badly that she had to lift the other to steady it, but she felt no fear; she was well-equipped to defend herself, the barrel of her gun leveled squarely at the intruder's chest as the door opened.

She was rewarded with a wide-eyed and ashen-faced Gabe. He opened and shut his mouth speechlessly, like a wind-up toy's clockwork movements.

Naomi breathed easier and holstered the weapon.

"I nearly had a heart attack," he gasped, eyes fixed warily on the gun.

Naomi unapologetically returned his stare; she had covered cases before where breaking and entering had turned to murder, and with her mounting fame as an investigator, she couldn't say for certain that she was still safe.

"You should have knocked," she replied simply.

He bristled at her words, refusing to budge from his spot outside the door. Gabe's jaw had an angry set to it and his eyes were narrowed, like a terrified owl puffing up its feathers to look more threatening. Naomi rolled her eyes, realizing that he wouldn't let this go until she explained herself.

"I was merely protecting myself," she sighed.

"What, from me?" he demanded. "It's not like you gave me, I don't know, a key or something."

"You know as well as I do that the key was for locking the door when you leave, _not _for letting yourself in whenever you want," she chastised, ignoring his fuming. She was trained with firearms and he knew as well as she did that he had been in absolutely no danger.

"And so you nearly shoot me. Not even a 'Hey, Gabe, could you be a little more polite?' or anything. Oh no, that's just how _normal_ people would do things. _You _menace me with a pistol," the diagnostician complained. "When did you even start carrying that damn thing, anyway? I've never seen it before."

"I always have it with me at work. The security at CIFM has definitely gotten tighter with the FBI around, but a girl can never be too careful," she explained with a shrug. In truth, it was her brush with death at the electrician's hands that had clinched the matter; beforehand, Naomi had been relatively lax about carrying her gun, merely keeping it in the autopsy room out of habit. After all, she was a doctor. No matter how dangerous the killers she investigated were, it felt ridiculous for a former surgeon to carry a weapon while poking around crime scenes or examining corpses. That attack had firmly changed her mind, driving her to wear it at her side during all of her work hours. She had a realistic outlook on her chances of defending herself without it.

"Whatever. That doesn't explain why it gets pointed at me here," Gabe grumbled. He appeared to be mollified by her response, though, for he walked past her and dropped onto his accustomed place on the couch.

She looked down at the gun and paused, asking herself the same question. Usually, she put up the weapon as soon as she got home, setting it on her dresser with her wallet and keys. The fact that she'd absentmindedly reattached the holster to her belt after a shower bothered her more than it should have.

"…I just forgot to take it off," she murmured.

Gabe sat up, his scowl softening.

"Are you doin' all right?" he asked, suddenly staring critically at her. "This isn't like you at all."

Naomi took a seat, pointedly ignoring him. One forgetful moment did not mean anything was wrong…at least, that was what she told herself as she reached for a beer. Her hands shook so badly that it took two tries to get the top off, though, and she hurriedly set the bottle down to avoid dropping it. Those same trembling fingers had stolen her surgical precision and forced her into a career that did not require the same level of dexterity. She missed surgery, missed the intense focus of an operation, missed the electric feeling in her blood as she tapped into her Healing Touch. Her colleagues in Okinawa hadn't understood that ability at all, causing her to leave the country out of fear for her life, but Naomi still longed for an opportunity to use the Healing Touch again. The way her every nerve tingled as she tapped into that power was as addictive as the strongest of drugs; even years after she had quit surgery, she couldn't shake her desire to feel that exhilaration just _one more time_.

She folded her hands in her lap in hopes of stilling them, silencing her guilty thoughts. It was impossible to do so at the moment. Her trembling was usually manageable, but lately, it had been getting worse. Naomi feared the day that her disease would progress so far that she couldn't even keep working. If she was already getting forgetful, then perhaps that time wasn't as far off as she had previously thought.

"Naomi?" Gabe asked again, worry creeping into his voice. The Zippo danced in his hand, flashing dull silver and sparks of red as he flicked it open and shut.

"Work's been stressful," she muttered, not looking him in the eye. He stared at her for a moment more before nodding.

"I hear you," he replied. They both worked in medicine—he understood like few other people would. Granted, Gabe dealt with pressure differently than she did. He was like an elastic band, stretched out so far that it never returned to its original tension, remaining worn-out and slack forevermore. On the other hand, Naomi couldn't stand the thought that anyone would see her slump with her head in her hands or falter from lightheadedness, and so she repressed her problems, hiding the signs of both her stress and her disease. It wasn't healthy for either of them, but it was a doctor's job to help patients. Their own mental health mattered little in comparison.

"What's the outlook on that cardiomyopathy patient you were so worked up about last week?" Naomi queried. From the way he had so readily accepted her weak excuse, things hadn't gotten any easier at Resurgam.

"The idiot wants an OLCVR, and frankly, I can't dissuade him. But I don't even have time to worry about him anymore—he's the surgeon's problem. I've got my hands full with managing a new kid."

She arched an eyebrow, surprised. It had been a long time since her medical school days, but she remembered her textbooks discussing the overlapping cardiac volume reduction operation. Naomi had memorized that information for a test and had promptly forgotten about it afterwards; she had performed numerous heart surgeries in her short career, but that particular procedure had never come up outside of the classroom. It piqued her curiosity that it would be relevant now.

"Wait, a new doctor?" she asked, suddenly realizing just what had sounded strange about Gabe's statement. "Odd…Internships should have started before now."

"Sure, but this guy's no intern. He's a special doctor brought in for that bloody OLCVR."

"What sort of 'special doctor'? Are we looking at someone from Caduceus?"

"Caduceus? As if this lard ass's op is important enough. Nah, this guy's some kid called CR-S01. Ring any bells?"

"Should it?" she asked. She had the strangest feeling that she'd heard that appellation before, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember where she'd heard it. "That doesn't even sound like a name."

"Yeah, that's 'cause it's not—it's a prison number. This guy's in for 250 years for something, but he's the best guy for the job, so we're letting him out for this procedure. It's a pain in the ass, though."

"250 years? …You can't mean the _Cumberland Killer_ is working with you," Naomi demanded, the name suddenly clicking. CR-S01's case had been especially important to CIFM, as its sister university had been directly targeted in his murders—the man had ruthlessly slaughtered half the campus in a biochemical attack, if she remembered correctly. His case was still brought up at her workplace, even eight years after his conviction, but at heart he was just a coldblooded killer like the rest of the ones that Naomi put behind bars.

Regardless, CR-S01 struck a chord in her. Before his arrest, he had been a passionate and dedicated surgeon known for his exceptional ability in the operating room. Although his motives for the killings were entirely unknown, he had been branded a medical terrorist. It all added up to a situation that hit entirely too close to home for her.

"That's the one," Gabe confirmed.

"This is the first I've heard of this," the medical examiner remarked.

"We're technically not supposed to mention it. Wouldn't do Resurgam any good for people to know we've got a convicted killer on staff, you know?" he replied with a shrug. "The kid's all right, actually. His paperwork's been a bigger trouble than he has."

"What would he have to gain by raising hell? This is likely the first real human contact he's had in years."

"Yeah. It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for him. He gets along with the staff so well that it's hard to believe he's even the Cumberland Killer, you know?"

"Not all murderers are raging barbarians," Naomi cautioned. "I wouldn't put it past anyone to have killed before. Even you."

"I'm not saying I haven't," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Gabe didn't elaborate further, but his voice had dropped into a gruff growl, tone completely sober. He stared discontentedly at the floor, his knuckles white as he gripped his lighter.

Naomi winced as she realized just what she'd said. Her tongue had always been too quick for her better judgment, a fact which had gotten her into trouble before, but it was clear that her gallows humor had cut him deeply.

"My soldier days weren't exactly the best of my life," he said after a minute.

Her self-control was severely tested, the words "No dip, Sherlock" on the tip of her tongue. For his sake, she bit them back, instead nodding knowingly.

"…could you not tell Maria I served?" he suddenly asked, voice low and embarrassed.

She shot him a questioning look.

"How does she not know?"

"I don't exactly go around shouting it at the top of my lungs," he muttered, shaking his head. "She hates anyone who's taken life, you know? Hank and me…well, I think she might quit talking to us if she knew we'd killed in the war. I'd be fine if she was pissed at me, of course—she always is—but I wouldn't do that to the big guy. They're pretty close, you know?"

"I see," Naomi murmured, unable to think of anything else to say. Any promise not to tell the emergency physician would be pointless, as she rarely visited Resurgam to begin with. Naomi seriously doubted that Maria would hate him for fighting for his country, but it was useless to argue with a man who didn't like being told he was wrong.

"But how's your work? Is Little Guy still driving you up the wall?" he asked, stiffly changing the topic.

A smile touched her lips—Naomi was truly glad she had met up with Little Guy again, even after the atrocities they had committed in Delphi's name. He had changed so much since then that she could scarcely believe he was even the same person; the friendly agent she knew now bore no resemblance to the hardhearted cynic she had worked with two years before. At the very least, his soft voice no longer brought flashbacks of their terrorist days, and that was hope enough that Delphi might cease to haunt her before her death.

Naomi didn't say any of that, though, merely replying, "He's chatty as always, but when it comes to his competence? In a recent case, an eight-year-old found a critical piece of evidence that he couldn't locate."

She didn't really mean it; frankly, she hadn't found the murder weapon, either, and she had been the one who had handled the clock in which it was hidden. Little Guy was surprisingly good at his job and he worked well with her. Naomi still blundered over computer functions that he found infuriatingly simple, a fact that he handled with a commendable lack of snide comments. The agent had grown on her in his short stay at the institute…but she couldn't let Gabe know that, not when he would mock her so ruthlessly. It was easier to pick on Little Guy than it was to face that.

"How is this guy even an FBI agent?" Gabe demanded. "And what the hell was a kid doing at CIFM?"

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she took a drink to avoid responding. Alyssa's presence had been the collective fault of the staff; Chief Wayne had given her permission to be there, Little Guy had let her into his office, and the security was poor enough that it had not caught her. The brunt of the blame, however, fell squarely on her shoulders—Alyssa had only come onto campus to talk to Naomi, who had encouraged that sort of behavior through her reluctance to forcibly remove her. She had always had a soft spot for children, and if she had just been stricter about it, the girl would have stayed off the grounds.

"…I might have had something to do with it," she admitted, unwilling to meet Gabe's eyes. "Alyssa is…a friend of mine."

Pure, dumbstruck silence came from the other side of the room. She glanced up to see Gabe staring openmouthed, his beer lifted halfway to his lips and apparently forgotten. His eyes darkened and he shook his head slowly.

"You're getting into trouble," he warned.

"I know," Naomi breathed, mind lingering on the way her hands shook earlier. Neither Alyssa nor Little Guy deserved the cruelty that would be dealt to them when she died. She had broken her vow to keep away from other people, and with little more than four months left for her to live, they would have just enough time to grow attached to her before she left them entirely. It wasn't fair to any of them. Gabe was the only safe person, cool and uncaring, the only one who understood that she was nothing more than a dead woman granted animation for a moment more.

"Don't get yourself into anything you can't handle, all right?" he cautioned at last, settling on saying nothing more.

"I _am _a professional," Naomi reminded him. She knew she deserved his remarks, however, and so she curbed her typical acidic comments.

"Well, even professionals make idiot decisions sometimes."

"I bet you'd know about that firsthand," she weakly teased. Gabe grinned, a second too slow to be natural. On her part, it was easier to try to make light of her situation than it was to deal with Gabe's sympathy and his advice. On his, she knew he hated how she handled her own mortality and more than likely would welcome any chance to leave that topic behind.

"Hey, sure I do. I'm here, aren't I?" he riposted, his comeback every bit as stale as hers.

"If it's such a poor idea, perhaps you ought to leave," she joked.

He stood, slowly crossing the distance between the couch and her chair. As Naomi looked skeptically up at him, he seized her gently by the wrist, pulling her to her feet with a quirk of his eyebrow and a small smile.

"Here, I think I know the way out. You should follow me, though, just in case I get lost," he chuckled, heading for her bedroom door.

The medical examiner merely grinned and went along with it. It was easier than fighting with him.

Per usual, she found herself pressed against Gabe, his arms loosely around her and his rapid heartbeat faintly audible. He slowly brought up a hand and brushed a long strand of silver hair out of her eyes, whispering a few words that were too thick with sleep for her to make out. It was either that or the headache that pounded at her skull, making it all but impossible to focus on the snarky diagnostician.

Gabe's fingers ran down her sides, slowing as he traced the indentations between her ribs. A low sound of disapproval rumbled in his chest and his soft touches ceased abruptly.

"You're skinnier than a runway model," he muttered seriously.

"Can we not talk about this now?" Naomi sighed, her words sharp-edged from her headache and her reluctance to discuss her condition. She didn't want to discuss symptoms and medicine just then, and Gabe's concern bothered her. As he had said before, she wasn't a patient. It wasn't his job to pester her.

He let out an aggravated groan and disentangled himself from her. His brown eyes bored accusingly into hers, and she shut her own to avoid his judging stare.

"Naomi…" he warned, his voice little more than a growl.

She turned her back on him, ignoring his stubbornness. If he wasn't going to leave until he got an answer, then he would be waiting a long time. Even Gabe's persistence couldn't beat down hers, not when she was tired and in pain.

He didn't speak, either accepting her silence or too displeased to continue. She heard a smattering of low curses and the sound of Gabe stumbling about. Eventually, though, even his uncoordinated movements ceased. Her door opened with a creak.

"Goodbye," she murmured.

"Bye," he gruffly responded.

Naomi only hoped that he could ignore her declining health, or else their arrangement would fall to pieces.


	5. Week Five

August 29, 2020

Gabe knocked politely on her door as if her violent reaction the week prior had taught him his lesson. She smirked to herself, but her smugness was utterly forgotten at the sight of him. His shaggy mane of hair looked like it had gotten into a fight with a comb (albeit one the comb had lost) and lay marginally flat, while his suit was washed and ironed. To top it all off, the unmistakable smell of cologne clung to him.

He grinned at Naomi's look of surprise and pressed a six-pack into her hands.

"Courtesy of the big guy," he explained, sauntering into her apartment. Gabe whistled to himself, low and off-key and settled into his accustomed place the couch.

"Someone's in a good mood," she observed, inwardly wondering if he had suffered any head trauma within the past week.

"Just got back from a medical conference overseas. Esha dragged me out there, but it was actually a pretty good gig," he replied.

"Was it Caduceus?" Naomi asked, the words slipping out before she had a chance to check them. The disaster at the organization's conference two years prior still left her shuddering; had she not attended that conference, she would likely still be operating with a long life ahead of her, for it was there that she had been exposed to the GUILT cells that would later grow into her current illness. Gabe knew that as well as she did, of course, and a flicker of pity crossed his features.

"Nah, this was a meeting in Tokyo," Gabe assured. His moment of concern didn't last any longer than that, though from the set to his jaw, he wanted to press the issue. Instead, he turned away and popped the top off of a beer. Naomi wondered if he was still irritated about her closemouthed attitude about her weight. It wasn't his business anyway.

"I haven't been to a normal conference in years," she said, biting back the sharp words that were on the tip of her tongue.

"You're no surgeon anymore, so why bother? Besides, now you don't even have to show up at places like that for the media to snap a picture," he commented idly, pulling out a folded newspaper clipping from his pocket and tossing it onto the coffee table. Naomi recognized it immediately—the bold headline, "Corpse Whisperer Takes on the Raging Bomber", screamed at her in thick lettering, and her picture glared fiercely above it in stark black-and-white. It had been the focus of heated discussion at CIFM, as their work was supposedly secret and it was challenging to investigate crimes when her face was known to every amateur with a camera in the Portland area. It was enough to make Little Guy change his clothing, although she would almost say that he was dressing up to look better should anyone photograph him rather than trying to throw off people looking for his usual blue suit.

"Very funny," Naomi returned.

"Hey, they'd probably take your photo even if you weren't working with the FBI, you know?"

"People do seem to be strangely fascinated with this power of mine," she conceded.

"I was talking about your good looks, but yeah, that works, too, 'Corpse Whisperer'. If even half of that article is true, you've been holding a pretty big secret," he commented.

"It's no secret—most of the CIFM staff know about it."

In truth, she had avoided bringing up her ability on purpose; Gabe had always been skeptical of anything he couldn't see or touch. Naomi couldn't entirely blame him, for she had been startled half to death the first time she'd heard the voice of a dead man through her phone—it simply stretched plausibility too far. The voices hadn't ceased pestering her, however, and she had gradually grown used to it. It had taken longer to learn the limitations on her ability to hear the dead, though, or to figure out the reason why she could only hear those that were caught in the last breath between life and death. Naomi presumed the reason that only the deceased's final words carried over to her was her own grimly similar situation.

Gabe's rapt interest, however, made her blood boil. She didn't like being gawked at, and after the media spectacle she wished that she could just go back to anonymity for a little while. Between being the Corpse Whisperer in American newspapers and the Demon Doctor in Japan, she would give nearly anything to go back to being just plain Naomi Kimishima. Even if she could tolerate reporters heckling her, she refused to accept the same from Gabe, for he knew her as a person and not just by the tabloids. She narrowed her eyes, mentally daring him to pester her further.

Perhaps wisely, he instead asked, "Who do you think leaked that to the media?"

"Probably some awestruck forensics professor or a policeman," Naomi muttered, rolling her eyes. "The FBI is too professional for that."

"Even Little Guy?" he queried.

She shook her head, a small smile spreading across her face.

"Little Guy wouldn't do something like that. He's too intelligent," she replied.

"Sounds to me like you actually like him," Gabe remarked, surprised.

"There are worse coworkers out there. I mean, he's polite, considerate…"

"And breathtakingly gorgeous, too, if I remember correctly," Gabe teased.

"You know I don't mean it like that," she caustically returned. It was her own fault for praising Little Guy so highly (which practically _begged_ for Gabe to mock her) yet she found herself unwilling to amend her prior statement. She had a certain fondness for the agent; his overt enthusiasm, flustered stammering, and affection for her brought a bubble of warmth to her otherwise deathly cold body. How often had she been stumped on a case only to have him rush in with test results or a new spin on things? It was almost hard to remember a time before he'd show up, tie askew and with a vital piece of evidence in hand, or how she would grasp at excuses to keep him there just a moment longer…

She caught herself smiling and hurriedly assumed a blank mask, although no matter how serious she kept her expression, her pale cheeks were still tinted with a splash of pink at the thought of him. Little Guy rose too easily to her mind, with his slow, eyes-closed smile and proud, shoulders-back stance. Just when, she asked herself, had all of these things began to affect her? Surely Alyssa's bright eyes and Little Guy's cheerfulness wouldn't have fazed her a few months ago…

"How would you like me cracking jokes about you and Maria?" she weakly asked, trying to regain the upper hand.

"Wouldn't care one bit. You're the one who gets all hot and bothered every time I bring up your little FBI pet," Gabe answered with a mischievous grin.

"I don't know why I even rise to the bait anymore," she replied, still caught up in her thoughts.

"'Cause I wouldn't have very much fun if you didn't, right?"

"You would still have Maria and Hank," Naomi reminded him.

"Fair enough," Gabe acknowledged. He reached for another beer, pausing as a hacking cough shook him. For long moments, he was nearly doubled over, shoulders shaking. Her lungs ached just watching him.

"Is Joshua out of the hospital yet?" she asked when he finally regained his composure.

"He was for a while, but was readmitted for complications or something. Shouldn't be anything worth worrying over, though."

Naomi looked to the side, trying to control the flash of anger that tore through her. Joshua was only ten, a hurt, sick child, cooped up in an unfamiliar place with a father who never bothered to show up. It was horrible that Gabe wouldn't spare the ten minutes it would take to drop in and say something, especially given that he worked in the hospital. Realistically, Naomi knew that every family had its problems—she had even said as much to Little Guy—but it still cut deeply. She still couldn't quite believe that Gabe could be so cold towards his own son.

"You should see him," she said.

"Why? Lisa already came in. Besides," he said, "I have that jailbird surgeon to worry about, remember?"

The medical examiner scowled. There he went again, running circles around her, fluidly changing from one topic to the next so smoothly that she couldn't keep up. She bitterly wondered just when he had gotten so good at dominating their conversations; Naomi didn't dare steer the conversation back to his son when he had so obviously brushed her off.

"And just how is the Cumberland Killer?" she asked, grudgingly going along with him.

"A goddamn genius with the scalpel. We had someone with an odd case of immunosuppressive-related Kaposi's sarcoma, and this guy didn't even hesitate to operate. Maria laughed in my face when I asked her if it could even be successfully done, and this prisoner kid just shrugs and puts on a surgical mask."

"…Does he have the Healing Touch?" she questioned quietly, memories of surgeries long past rising unbidden to her mind. Naomi's eyes were glued to her own shaking hands, thinking of the way she'd once treated patients no one else could, the blood of Asclepius flowing through her veins. She had been nearly unrivalled in operating skill back then. If this CR-S01 held that talent, as well…

"You'd think so, given his skill, but he doesn't. He's Derek without the witchcraft. I can get you footage of his ops, if you want," Gabe offered, catching the look on her face.

Naomi's curiosity was piqued, but she sternly reminded herself that she was a forensic investigator now; surgery—even jaw-dropping, fantastic surgery—was none of her concern. In any case, she didn't dare get involved with the Cumberland Killer; after all, he had been found guilty for his crimes, yet despite that, he was still allowed to operate, albeit under special circumstances. She had attempted to repent for hers, but no matter what, she couldn't hold a scalpel again. It felt bitterly unfair.

"I'll pass. With any luck, I'll never need to see him," she said with more force than necessary.

"Suit yourself," he replied with a shrug.

"How is Maria handling him? I know you said she can't stand killers."

"I guess that part never really clicked with her—she missed the briefing on him, and underestimates the gravity of a truckload of FBI goons wasting my time. The rest of us, well…We're just praying that some idiot won't bring it up," he confessed.

"The truth cannot be hidden," she warned.

"Not my problem if this gets out," he answered, nonchalant.

"Would it be your problem if Lisa found out you were here?" Naomi asked, immediately wondering just what had prompted her to do so. She hadn't brought it up out of her own dislike of his marriage; she'd known that from the beginning and had accepted the severity of it. Perhaps she was still angry about his earlier scolding—if he had the right to chide her about Alyssa and Little Guy, then she had the right to fight back.

"I sure wouldn't care if she's sleeping with someone else," he responded with another shrug. "Besides, it's not like we've actually gotten up to anything tonight."

"Care to rectify that?" Naomi asked, reluctantly accepting his response.

It was easier to just follow him and forget her thoughts of his wife…or of a certain blond coworker who unexpectedly came to mind.

Naomi was acutely aware of how small she felt, held tight to Gabe's chest by strong arms that she likely couldn't have pulled away from if she wanted to. His legs were entwined with hers and he nuzzled her neck, lips ghosting over her skin and making her squirm. She could feel his breath on her cheek, his long hair tickling her nose, drawing a quiet sneeze from her. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest in response.

She was about to ask him just what was so funny when he languidly ran his hand up her side as if attempting to memorize every last inch of skin. Her question died on her lips and her breath hitched.

"You're affectionate today," Naomi breathed, arching against him. His touches competed with her buzzing head for her attention, and it was hard to breathe. Perhaps they'd overdone it, she thought; after all, sex didn't usually leave her feeling like she'd run a marathon, gasping for air and beads of sweat trickling down her neck.

"What can I say?" Gabe asked, a light laugh dancing through his words. "You're beautiful."

"Mm, I'm glad you think so," she murmured.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure most heterosexual males would agree," he chortled. He lightly stroked her cheek to accentuate his point, smiling so widely she could feel it against her skin.

They lay there like that for so long that she thought he'd fallen asleep, his usual stream of snarky chatter dying down to nothing more than even breathing. She still felt lightheaded, too warm, and she lay awake with the room spinning in her vision. It had been years since she'd actually slept with someone by her side and she was starting to realize just how much she missed it. Naomi snuggled back against him, sleepily murmuring, "Goodnight, Little Guy."

"What did you say?" Gabe asked, his voice muddled—clearly, he wasn't quite as asleep as she'd thought he was.

Naomi started guiltily, realizing what she'd just said.

"…Goodnight. That's all."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I'm not looking forward to leaving," he admitted. From his tone, he didn't wholly believe her.

"Then don't."

"It's been hours since I've gotten a fix," he grumbled. "Can't you just let me back in?"

"I'm afraid not," she replied, cheeks still flushed with shame. It was just a simple slip of the tongue, of course; she'd mixed up people's names before, calling Little Guy "Derek" and Chief Wayne "Blackwell" before…but never like this. She shook her head to try and clear it. She would have to keep better control of her tongue. Such a thing was unprofessional and foolish.

Naomi was too busy berating herself to realize Gabe had even gotten up until she heard him growling curses as he hunted for his tie. He cast her a forlorn look, his dress shirt unbuttoned and his blazer thrown over his shoulder, but she wholeheartedly ignored it.

"I'll see you next week, then," he said at last.

"I look forward to it."

She was asleep before he left.


	6. Week Six

September 5, 2020

The sight that greeted Naomi upon opening her door left her gaping; her friend looked like he'd spent his week in the slums. His hair was a matted, greasy mess, limp strands straggling out of his sloppy ponytail. Those bright amber eyes that she knew so well seemed dull, nearly hidden under his drooping eyelids and underscored by black circles. Gabe's jaw was shadowed by the start of a beard that was as scruffy and unkempt as he was, and his mouth was firmly set in a despondent frown, a cigarette between his teeth. Even his white lab coat was smudged with dirt and hung off of his slumped shoulders, giving him more the look of a homeless man who had mugged a doctor than a high-paid diagnostician.

"Hey," he greeted in a lackluster voice. Gabe didn't bother to wait for her to let him in; he shoved past her with scarcely a muttered apology.

"Gabriel?"

"Hope you've got some booze in this place. I drank the stuff I was going to bring."

Naomi stood in the doorway and stared. Anything bad enough to affect Gabe sent a stab of fear through her—what if one of their friends had died? Her mind raced, the crushing thought of Maria or Hank's death leaving her wide-eyed and tense.

Naomi pulled herself away from her groundless musings and made her way to the fridge, glad that she had the foresight to pick up spare drinks in case Gabe became too lazy to bring some. The situation differed drastically from what she'd anticipated, but the thought still applied. She returned to the living room to see Gabe playing with his battered old lighter. Half-healed cuts and bruises warred for space along his knuckles and the back of his hands, as if he'd gotten into a fight.

"What happened?" she softly asked, sitting beside him on the couch. His eyes flickered over to her, but he didn't comment upon her chosen seat.

"Joshua has Wermer's syndrome," Gabe breathed.

She stopped cold, her med school days feeding her a rush of information. For such a disease to fall upon his son seemed too cruel a twist of fate for even Naomi to shrug off.

"The diagnosis could be wrong," she tried.

He snatched the beer from her hand and violently snapped it open, tossing back his head and drinking with reckless abandon. His eyes had a glazed, shell-shocked look to them, fixed dully on the neck of the bottle.

"Don't you think I checked?" he demanded as he slammed it to the table. "I did the diagnosis myself. God, I wish I was wrong. More than anything, I wish I was wrong. Joshua…"

He broke off, voice cracking on his son's name. It looked like all those years he had spent ignoring his family and his problems had come to a thundering halt. He seemed trapped, a man buried alive under the wreckage of his own irresponsibility, unable to lift a finger to help when he finally wanted to do so. Despite this, Gabe didn't cry. For all that his chest heaved with hoarse, shuddering breaths, he wore a dangerous smile, as if he didn't know how to handle his own grief. She reminded herself that he likely didn't; Gabe never let anything get to him, and for something to strike the weak chink in his armor must have hurt.

"What's the prognosis?" Naomi asked, keeping her tone stiff and professional. Gabe didn't need anyone's pity, least of all hers.

"Hopefully survivable. The kid operated on him already, but by the time he did, Joshua had already gone into septic shock. He'll be lucky to make it through that…but even if he does, nothing is going to change his genes. He'll be stuck with this for the rest of his life," Gabe replied, voice tight.

He nearly lit his cigarette before he remembered where he was. Gabe turned and eyed her beseechingly.

"Can we take this outside?" Gabe pleaded. Naomi had never heard him sound so vulnerable, so _human _before, and she swallowed thickly. She loathed the thought of her flat smelling like cigarette smoke, but the desperate look on his face moved her to agree despite herself. He gratefully smiled, although it was tight at the corners and didn't reach his cold eyes, and he padded towards the door. Naomi wordlessly followed with her heart in her throat.

The cool night air hit her like a physical blow, leaving her shivering. Gabe didn't seem to mind; he folded his arms on the balcony railing and lit up.

The change in his posture was visible; some of the tension melted from his muscles, and his eyes slid shut as the nicotine entered his system. She cocked her head to the side, barely able to make out the image of an eagle stamped onto the side of his lighter, emphasized by block letters spelling out U.S. ARMY. He didn't notice her staring, merely taking a long drag and sighing deeply, staring thoughtfully out at the black Maryland sky.

"I think I'm going to file for divorce," he slowly said.

"Why now?" she asked, coming to stand beside him. Her head spun and her knees were weak, pushing her to lean on the wrought-iron railing. The metal was freezing to the touch, but Naomi wasn't sure she could stand without it right then.

"Well, let's see. My own son doesn't know who I am. He's my spitting image and my name means absolutely nothing to him. Joshua doesn't need a father like that. No one does," the doctor sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

She made a soft noise of agreement, unsure what else to say. Naomi knew that handling sensitive situations was not her forte, and in that moment, her opinion wasn't warranted—he just needed to vent.

"I just had to go be a big damn hero," he chuckled mirthlessly. "Combat medic Gabriel, heading off to go fight some valiant war, earn some medals, and be back by dinnertime. I was a goddamn idiot, leaving behind my wife and kid for that garbage." "I didn't get back for two years. Lisa thought things would be like they were when I left, but…it was hard. I'd picked up smoking out on the battlefront, you know. She hated it, like you do, and she hated the way neither of us got a good night's sleep for weeks," he muttered, shaking his head. "I was medicated for the nightmares and the anxiety—nefazodone, benzodiazepines, pretty usual stuff—but it was hell for both of us. She put up with it for longer'n I would have if the situation had been reversed. Kept saying I just needed a little more time to get used to things, but she eventually just stopped making excuses for me. We ended up fighting a lot, and in the end, she took Joshua and left. Didn't want him growing up in a household like that."

The doctor's tone was clipped and clinical, as emotional as if he was reading off a list of symptoms to a patient. His despondent body language, though, told another story; Naomi could tell just how hard he was working to keep the misery of those days from swallowing him.

"If it's any consolation, I believe you're doing the right thing," Naomi murmured.

"Well, at least I'll be a free man again," Gabe replied. It was about the weakest joke she had ever heard, but it wasn't in his nature to mope, even when the situation was as dire as it was.

She smiled at his halfhearted attempt to shrug it all off. He was tough—a doctor, a soldier, a _survivor_—and she knew at heart that it would not be enough to break him. There was a determined set to his jaw and a spark to his eye; he was a mess for the moment, but he would be all right in the end. Of that, Naomi was certain. As for her, well…

She glanced down at her trembling hands, felt the way the balcony seemed to tilt under her feet, and reminded herself that she needed Gabe's emotional stability right then.

Neither said anything for long moments, the glow of his dying cigarette fading as it burnt down to the filter. The cool September air chilled her to the bone, leaving her pressed as close to him as she could get in a feeble attempt to borrow some of his warmth, his _life_. Gabe's arm was looped around her narrow shoulders, his grip strong enough to bruise, and she, in turn, worked to keep her balance, one hand braced on the rail and the other around his waist. Naomi shivered against him and choked on the cigarette smoke; he seemed to be a statue, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the bright lights of a thousand households with their own problems. Hers stared out at the few stars visible over the wispy clouds and air pollution, looking at the great gaps that a billion years' travel couldn't begin to explore.

Despite the stillness on her balcony, the night was alive with sounds, the harsh buzzing of cicadas filling the air with a dull hum. The faint blare of rock music drifted down from two floors up and the whooshing of cars going by interrupted her musings. Somewhere in the distance, a whippoorwill called out. All throughout came the raspy noise of Gabe's heavy breathing.

It suddenly occurred to Naomi that she didn't want to die.

It was a strange thought, and one that fled as soon as she attempted to pursue it. She had grown accustomed to the idea that death could come to her at any time and faced it with open arms. Yet as she stood beside Gabe, shaking like a leaf, she couldn't help but think that she was missing something.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.

"Cold?"

"Freezing," she replied, taking his question as an invitation to go back inside. Naomi was halfway to the warmth of her flat when she realized that Gabe wasn't following her.

"You know, it's not that chilly out here," he remarked, staring disconcertingly at her. His eyes were fixed on the way her custom-tailored jacket hung off of her, a look of worry coming into his eyes. "I know you've always been on the thin side, but I'm honestly concerned about your weight. You've gotten worse in recent weeks, buddy."

"It'll be fine," she mumbled. Naomi would usually be tempted to make a crack about her illness, but she found that the words stuck in her throat. It felt wrong, somehow, to make light of her impending death.

"Well, it could explain your sensitivity to the cold: less muscle and fat is less insulation," Gabe explained, coming in and throwing himself on the couch. "…of course, you already know that, so I don't know why I'm still flapping my jaw."

She smiled, glad to see that he'd at least somewhat returned to the cynical Gabe she knew so well. His lips quirked tensely in response and he popped open another beer.

"I've got a tough case going at work. It's almost enough to make a girl wish for a simple killing in this state," she dryly chuckled, moving the topic to something that Gabe would be more inclined towards.

"What, are you sick of working with those boneheaded FBI idiots?"

"Barring a small incident with a guitar, Little Guy hasn't done anything worth that appellation," she replied, fondly shaking her head at the memory. "If anything, I'm the boneheaded one—I spent all day chasing a false lead. Tomorrow, we start over from scratch."

"Define 'incident'," he joked, raising his fingers in air quotes. Only the slight pause before he spoke betrayed that anything was different from normal.

"He…overreacted over a valuable guitar's destruction."

"So now he's a music lover, too? I swear this guy's _too _perfect. He has to be hiding something. You know, I bet you he's a neo-Nazi or a celebrity stalker. I mean, hey, I had an ex once who got arrested for attempted homicide. Maybe that's more his MO?"

"Mm, yes, when he shoots everyone in the office, I'll be sure to remember that you told me so," she replied, although she felt a stab of fear at Gabe's joke. Little Guy _was_ hiding something, something only she knew of: his past affiliation with a deadly terrorist organization. True, he had reformed, as she had, and he had become a model citizen, working to put criminals behind bars. Yet while she had joined Delphi for a chance to operate again, Naomi still had no idea why he had been involved. Given the FBI agent's high ranking and fanatical devotion to Delphi's horrible cause two years prior, she couldn't wholly dismiss that he'd _wanted _to be there, that he had no more reason than some sick inability to separate right from wrong. If that was the case, it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to think that he could do something terrible again.

But Naomi could not bring herself to believe it. There had to be _some _reason he worked with the terrorists, some coercion he couldn't wriggle out of. She would never bring herself to ask him, for those memories were miserable for both of them, but Naomi would take nearly any excuse she could find to explain his behavior, for he was too kindhearted for her to accept anything else. Perhaps he was even under much the same situation she had been, sticking with Delphi because they offered him a chance to get away from something that could otherwise be the death of him.

Naomi got up suddenly, feigning a look at the clock to convey her intent to Gabe. Amused, he drew to his feet, stretching head to toe.

"Office shootouts turn you on, huh? Remind me of that sometime. I think I've still got my old sidearm somewhere," he teased, clapping his hand on her shoulder.

She only rolled her eyes and led the way, hoping to get her mind off of her grave thoughts.

A migraine pounded at her head like the beak of a woodpecker. It was nearly enough to drown out the way her stomach flipped and the blankets stuck to her skin, utterly soaked with sweat. She gasped for breath as if she'd narrowly avoided drowning, her throat as dry as sandpaper and breaths coming so rapidly that she was nearly hyperventilating. It still wasn't enough to satisfy her lungs' demand for oxygen. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut; she was overwhelmed by enough stimuli without seeing spots dance in her vision.

Even without her nausea, it would have been nearly unbearable; Gabe had been anything but gentle with her. Bruises dotted her skin from where his fingers dug into her, his short nails drawing blood along her shoulders and teeth marks marring the pale skin on her collarbone. She ached all over, her muscles trembling spasmodically and a dull pain throbbing in her. Naomi didn't even have the strength left to stumble to the bathroom for an aspirin or a glass of water; she was left gritting her teeth and trying to fight down the pain.

Gabe had likely mistaken her quiet gasps of hurt for ones of pleasure. He might have noticed her wincing on a normal night, but under the burden of his son's illness, his observational skills had been severely dulled. She had put up with it in silence, merely pushing through the unpleasantness like she would push through office paperwork.

He crushed her to his chest, his hold desperate and needy. Naomi knew that he didn't even see her as his sharp-tongued friend at that moment; she was a warm body and little more right then. Naomi didn't think any worse of him for it, for recently she had trouble biting back moans of someone else's name.

"Thanks," he said in a gravelly voice. His hold on her tightened as if he _needed_ to be closer to her.

"You're hurting me," she whimpered. Naomi's own voice startled her—the low, pained sound was entirely alien to her. Yet he was too hot against her feverishly warm body, and for a terrifying moment Naomi thought she was going to pass out. Her head spun as if it was an unwilling passenger on a wild carnival ride, the world trembling nearly as much as she was.

Gabe pulled back with a quiet apology, sitting up and pushing the suffocating blankets off of their chests. The touch of cool air on her hot skin was far more appreciated than the sex had been and left her sighing.

"I need to call up Resurgam and check on Joshua," he softly said.

She lay still and just breathed for a moment. It shouldn't have been as hard as it was, but her limbs felt like they were nailed to the bed, and all she could do was attempt to even out her frantic gasps for air.

"Hey, you doin' all right?" the doctor asked with concern.

She nodded, managing to say, "Just fine. I wish you luck" in a passably normal voice.

"Thanks," he replied. "Sleep well, though I'm sure I won't."

"I'll try," she promised, equally sure that it wouldn't be hard for her to do so. Naomi had never felt so exhausted in her life, and sleep would offer some reprieve from her splitting headache and sore muscles.

She only realized he was gone when she was given no response. She told herself she would deal with it later, but the thought rang hollow even in her mind.


	7. Week Seven

September 12, 2020

Gabe showed up at her door with a medical chart under one arm and his coat folded over the other shoulder. He grinned widely, but the warmth didn't extend to his eyes, which watched her warily as if she would snap at any moment. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, but he was clean-shaven and showered, his back straight and shoulders squared.

"I brought that stuff of Maria's that you liked," he offered by way of greeting. "…And this."

He pressed the chart into her hands. She took a quick glance at it, only having to read off "Breslin, Alyssa" before nodding curtly. Naomi already knew how the operation had gone, but she appreciated Gabe's thoughtfulness anyway.

"I went to see her earlier today," Naomi explained, holding the door open. She paused for a moment, then added, "I think I'm going to adopt her."

Gabe nearly dropped the beer.

"You can't do that!" he spluttered.

"Why not?" she coolly asked. "Please come in—you're letting the cold in."

He shook his head slowly as he walked towards the sofa. Gabe sat on the end, eyeing her with concern.

"I thought you weren't going to get involved in anyone else's life."

"It's my fault that she was hurt," she said simply. "I would say I'm already involved."

The bomb had been her responsibility—if Naomi had figured the case out quicker, had not let Alyssa be there, had done _something_, Alyssa might not have come within an inch of death.

"…Look, Naomi, I know you've gotten nice and attached to her, but we both know you don't exactly have long to live," he bluntly replied.

"I'll work something out. Little Guy or the FBI will take care of her when I die. I can't let them put her in a damn _orphanage_, Gabriel!" she cried.

"You would trust Little Guy with her?"

"Yes," she immediately replied, thinking back to the incident in the Portland Airport. "He saved my life in the bombing. If he hadn't been there, Maria would have found a familiar face among the black tags."

The thought was sickening. Not because of her own death, no, but because of the knowledge that Little Guy had put his life on the line—his vibrant, _healthy_ life—to keep her from harm. Her gut twisted in knots just thinking of it. She wanted to scream at him for his decision, to remind him that she was already so close to death that he was only wasting his time and risking his life. If Little Guy had been killed in that foolish rescue of his, she wasn't sure she could have kept going.

Funny, she thought, that he had wormed his way into her heart like he had. Naomi smiled, unable to help it, a feeling of warm fuzziness coming over her. She couldn't begin to list all the things she would miss if he died; work would be so impossibly _empty _without his spluttered shouts of "Dr. Kimishima!", his lighthearted jokes, his nervous chuckle, and his dependability. She would even miss his awkward flirting, which she was almost tempted to reply to.

"Well, I hope you know what you're doing," Gabe sighed.

"I do, too," she quietly agreed. As he had pointed out, she had broken her promise not to let people get close to her, and now Alyssa and Little Guy would be devastated when she died…

Gabe fell silent, his dark eyes softening.

"So, you finally met CR-S01. What do you think of him?" he asked after a moment.

Naomi thought of his steely eyes and too-serious words of reassurance. She truly was reminded of herself in her younger days, steady of hand and steady of purpose, focused and determined to get the job done. More importantly than anything, though, he had made her phone stop buzzing, silencing the voice that she knew in her heart belonged to Alyssa.

"I owe him my thanks. Alyssa…"

Her voice shook. Naomi cut herself off, embarrassed. She had cried already, after CR-S01 had left her in the emergency wing's hallway, her head bowed and her thin shoulders shaking. The edges of her phone dug into her skin from the force of her grip. It was undignified for a woman of her age to sob openly, but her fear for Alyssa had been so acute that she couldn't think straight, let alone check the hot tears that cut fierce lines down her cheeks. Naomi had waited there in trembling anticipation until Hank had come and collected her, her make-up leaving smudges of black on her otherwise colorless cheeks, eyes red. She couldn't show that weakness in front of Gabe; it was too late for tears.

"Hey, I'll tell you what—I'll pass that on to him, all right? I'm sure he'll appreciate the thought," Gabe gently said, politely ignoring the way her eyes watered.

"Thank you," she breathed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"No problem, buddy. Won't take more than a moment, anyway."

She smiled shakily.

"He won Maria's respect, you know," Gabe remarked. "She refuses to believe he's the Cumberland Killer."

"Skill with the scalpel doesn't bequeath innocence."

"Well, that's Maria for you," he said with a shrug. "If she doesn't want to believe it, she'll take any excuse not to. But honestly? The rest of us agree."

"Even you?" Naomi asked.

"Yeah, even me," he decided after a pause. "I know what you think, but I've worked with this guy. Life means a lot to him. It's like Hank and Maria, you know? I don't think he could live with himself if he lost a patient, let alone killed someone."

Naomi didn't say anything, merely thinking about her own life and the epiphany she'd reached on that smoky balcony a week ago.

"This guy lives and breathes the Hippocratic Oath," Gabe continued. "I mean, he got additional years slapped on his sentence for evading capture to operate on Alyssa. But at that moment? His life didn't matter, compared to hers. _No one_ that selfless would murder a campus full of strangers just for the hell of it."

"I admit, that isn't usual behavior for mass murderers," the forensic investigator conceded. It was admittedly hard to remain on the side of the court ruling that had convicted him when he had singlehandedly saved Alyssa.

"I'm gonna miss him," Gabe sighed. "He's already back behind bars."

"What is going to happen to him?" she asked.

"Beats me. If we're lucky? He'll get clearance to come back. Otherwise, he'll probably just live out the rest of his sentence in there."

"Imprisonment without a chance of freedom…It's an awful thought," Naomi murmured, shivering.

"Well, he has something to hope for now. It's a pity I won't be around to see what happens," he remarked, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm thinking of quitting when the divorce goes through. Open up my own clinic, move out west, into the country…" he mused, eyes gazing into the far-off future and a dreamy expression on his face. "Hey, it would be fun."

She smiled, sharing his dream for the moment. Naomi had never lived outside of the city before, but she could see it in her mind's eye; Gabe would be out in a small town, living up above his little clinic. He would be everyone's friend at the local hangouts, offering a light to anyone who needed one, able to toss out an order of "the usual" to any bartender in town and get what he wanted.

"I wish I could live to see it," Naomi sighed.

"…Yeah, me too," Gabe softly said. "I'm going to miss you."

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"Not for a while. I'll stick around at least long enough to see you off," he promised.

Naomi nodded, appreciating the sentiment.

"I'll miss you, too," she admitted. "These nights have been good."

Gabe sighed, running his hand through his hair as if not quite sure what to do.

"I don't want to die," she whispered.

"It's a natural response—everyone fears death," Gabe replied. His expression was curious, questioning why she felt the need to say this, his eyebrows arched.

"I don't fear death…but all the same, I don't want to die. There's too much left to do."

Gabe nodded in understanding.

"Again, a natural response. You're not living if you don't have something to live for, idiot," he returned.

"…I'm in love, Gabriel," she breathed.

His face drained of all color, and he sunk backwards as if he'd been punched in the stomach. The doctor's eyes were as wide as an owl's, his knuckles white as he gripped his beer.

"But, you know, we said, we…You promised!" he stammered, his usual eloquence reduced to nothing. "You're not supposed to. Not me!"

She barked out a short.

"I'm not that tasteless," she said. He watched her like a sheepdog watched a wolf, but his utter panic had diminished. "I meant…well…"

"Little Guy," he finished, sighing with relief.

"Good to see you kept your wits about you. It's not as if I was trying to be serious here."

"Hey, can you really blame me? If I told you I was in love, what would _you _think?" he pressed.

"Maria, perhaps? I know that even you aren't so stupid is to try wooing me."

The doctor eyed her like she'd grown a second head.

"I'm presuming you mean some Maria you know and _not _Maria Torres, since we're trying to be serious here."

She grinned, not bothering to take the jibe back. Teasing Gabe was half the fun of seeing him, after all.

"You _do_ have odd tastes," she reminded him.

"Sure. To turn me on, you've gotta be unhealthily underweight, talk to dead people, and think that being elbow-deep in some guy's chest cavity is a great way to spend your time," he returned.

"I'm amazed that you haven't jumped me already," Naomi dryly commented.

"Well, if you really want to…"

He got to his feet, grinning in invitation. She didn't particularly feel like getting up, but she did so anyway, unwilling to break their usual pattern.

Her head spun, and her knees almost gave out. She couldn't show such blatant weakness in front of him, though, or she would have to explain what was going on, and Naomi just couldn't do that. She wanted to pretend for one night that she wasn't a terminally ill ex-terrorist sleeping with her friend in an effort to compensate for the relationships she didn't dare have. Naomi stumbled forward, slipping her arm around Gabe's waist to steady herself.

He clumsily kissed her on the cheek and pushed open the bedroom door.

Naomi opened her eyes at the feeling of Gabe shaking her shoulders. His eyes were fixed on her with wild concern, pupils dilated to nearly swallow the toffee-brown of his irises. His breath was hot and heavy on her cheek.

"Gabriel?" she murmured with confusion, looking up at him. He was so close that his face dominated her field of vision, that mop of hair hanging in his worried eyes. She blinked to try and clear the blurriness from her vision, unsure of what had just happened.

"You scared the hell out of me!" he spluttered. The swearing couldn't cover up the very real fear in his voice, his breath coming in short gasps, sweat trickling down the sharp planes of his chest. Her mind raced to try to come up with what she might have done, but she foundered, finding nothing.

"Why are you so worked up?"

"Sheesh, I don't know. Maybe because _you passed out_. God, Naomi, for a second I thought you were dead," Gabe muttered, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "I thought I'd—"

He broke off, violently shutting his mouth on the words. Gabe turned away, trying in vain to hide the wobble in his voice and the look on his face.

Naomi's eyes widened and she sat up. She couldn't think of any reassurances, any words she could speak that would put Gabe at ease. Her gaze slid down her own body, ribs sticking out and a stark white operation scar slicing across her side, and she swallowed thickly.

"Why didn't you _tell _me you were feeling faint?" he demanded.

"I didn't think it was important," she muttered, knowing she was in the wrong. "I've always gotten over it before."

"_Before?_" he yelped. "And you never thought that _maybe_, just _maybe_, it would be a good idea to mention this?"

"It happens," Naomi said flatly.

"If you'd told me about it, it wouldn't have," Gabe seriously returned. "I don't know if you think I'm so horny that I would hate you if you asked to stop, or if you're just a proud idiot who can't admit she's wrong, but either way, this is over. I'm not going to keep letting you hurt yourself."

He stood up.

"Wait!"

The word leapt from her mouth without conscious thought. He turned, surprised, and cocked his head to the side in a silent question; she faced him with a feeling akin to guilt, unable to answer. Naomi wasn't sure just what had prompted it—she was, as Gabe said, a proud idiot, and she would not stoop to begging. But right then, she couldn't stand to see him leave.

"Gabriel," Naomi whispered, voice choked with emotion.

It was his turn to freeze, uncertainty flickering across his features. He looked away as if unwilling to meet her eyes.

"Don't go," she murmured. It was the last effort she would put forward, the final compromise of her dignity. He said nothing as the seconds slipped away. Finally, though, his shoulders slumped.

"Fine," he consented.

Gabe carefully lay down next to her, his movements stiff and awkward.

"Thank you," she said quietly, wrapping her arms around him and pressing close. He hugged her in response, fingers lightly running down her back, watching her closely as if still concerned. She just rested her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and his heavy breathing. Her lips brushed his neck and she let out a soft sigh.

"What are you going to do now?" Gabe mumbled, burying his face in her hair.

"I don't know. Likely, just stay with Alyssa," she replied. They clung together like the only survivors of a calamity, desperate and hurt, their affection for each other born of shared strife. His body was wracked with a hoarse cough, a reminder that he was fighting his desire to smoke to be there, and she kissed his jaw by way of apology.

He sardonically chuckled.

"Sounds like a good plan. Are you going to quit your job?"

"No," Naomi replied without hesitation. "If I had intended to retire and vacation for the last few months of my life, I would have done so sooner."

"I don't see where you're coming from. If I were you, I would've quit as soon as I could."

"What can I say? I like my job," she laughed lightly.

She nuzzled against his chest, eyelids too heavy to keep open. She yawned audibly.

"Tired?" Gabe asked with a quiet laugh.

"I always am nowadays," Naomi murmured.

His fingers stroked her hair with slow, lethargic movements, and before she knew it, Naomi was asleep.


	8. Weeks' End

October 3, 2020

Gabe rapped on the door, waiting patiently outside until she called, "Come in." His steps were slow and measured, but he greeted her with an enormous grin, a few sorry-looking flowers clenched awkwardly in one hand. Tired smudges hovered under his eyes, but he seemed more at ease than he had in a long time.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, taking a seat beside her bed.

Naomi glanced down at the blue hospital gown that billowed around her thin body, then back up at the scruffy doctor. The room spelled overpoweringly of _hospital_, the sharp, sterile odor of disinfectant filling her nose. It felt like homecoming after a long sojourn in a strange land.

"Like I'm on so many painkillers that I'm still asleep," she replied with a smile.

"If you had as much paperwork to do as the rest of the staff does, you wouldn't bemoan that," Gabe muttered, rolling his eyes. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and added, "I brought flowers. They're…from everyone on the ward."

"Liar," she teased. "But thank you for the thought." Her bedside table was already cluttered with get-well cards and little gifts from people that she would never have expected to care. It perplexed her; hadn't she taken measures explicitly to avoid getting involved in others' lives?

"Looks like somebody's popular," Gabe remarked, setting his small bouquet on top of a box of chocolates. "Who brought the lilies? They're enormous!"

"That would be Little Guy," she said.

"Figures. …You gave us all a real scare, you know."

She brought her hand up to her heart, feeling the unevenness of the sutures on her skin.

"Well, I'm alive…and from Dr. Tachibana's word, liable to stay that way for quite some time."

"I've noticed that you and Alyssa are set to be released on the same date," he remarked. "Your doing?"

"Of course. If I'm to be her mother, I should be there when she gets out," Naomi replied simply.

"Even if it kills you, huh? I hope you don't intend to drive for the next few weeks—you two better have a ride out of here."

"I know the limitations on a heart surgery patient and have since med school," she assured. "It looks like Little Guy will be on call for a while, though."

A light chuckle rippled through her words. Little Guy would be assuming his old role from Delphi: her chauffeur, assistant…and this time, her friend. He already understood that she would be relying heavily on his aid for the next few weeks, and the young FBI agent accepted that responsibility with nothing more than a serious nod and an affirmative, "Yes, Dr. Kimishima!"

"You sure the FBI is going to let you walk off with one of its agents?"

"He was contracted out here to assist CIFM's Corpse Whisperer. There's not a whole lot of work he would be doing while I'm out," she pointed out.

"Just make sure you don't get too comfortable with him."

"You forget—that isn't a concern anymore," she replied. "I'm not going anywhere.

The thought still sent tingles through her. Two days prior, she had been a woman with scant weeks left to live. Now, she had her whole life ahead of her. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes and a shaky grin to her lips.

"I just don't want you putting any strain on your heart for a while. You're supposed to avoid stressful situations, up to and including worrying over whether or not he loves you back," Gabe cautioned with a snicker.

"Believe me, I have far more things to worry about before my fictional love life," she dryly replied. "I have to hunt for a new home, install a gun safe, work with school zoning—"

"Calm down," he soothed. "You're going to hurt yourself.

Naomi sighed and let it slide. Her head was cotton-wrapped, fuzzy, the painkillers dulling everything—including her capacity to argue with him. She leaned back against the pillow, tired eyes barely open.

"You're getting really into this parenthood thing," he remarked.

"It's not something to be taken lightly. Speaking of which, how is Joshua?"

"Doin' fine. I checked up on him before coming to see you, you know," Gabe said, quietly looking away. "He…he hugged me. For being his doctor."

His words were slow and choked with emotion. It was likely the first time he had felt affection from his son since before Lisa moved out. Gabe smiled thinly.

"…I'd sort of like to see him. Just a little more. I won't tell him who I am, but I'd still like to see the kid," he admitted.

"Has the divorce gone through?"

"Yeah, she agreed easily enough. Hasn't legally been resolved yet, but it won't be long."

"When are you going to retire?" she wondered. His talk of opening his own clinic came to mind, reminding her that Gabe would not be there long.

"I've decided to stick around. That whole Rosalia thing showed me that these idiots can't handle a crisis without me," he sheepishly replied, fiddling with his ponytail. "What about you? You're better now…so are you going to go back into surgery?"

The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. Naomi looked down at her hands, which lay still, her trembling utterly gone. Her surgical skill would be as sharp as it was before she fell ill—she was now a healthy woman in the prime of her life. She could save lives again, feel her blood sing with the force of the Healing Touch, see the smiles on patients' faces. The idea was sweet on her tongue, intoxicating as the finest liquor. After two long years of working in a field that felt more like law enforcement than real medicine, she could finally return to her true passion in life and leave the Corpse Whisperer title behind. Naomi would be free of the tedious investigations, the murders, the annoying coworkers…

But Little Guy would be reassigned. He would be whisked away to some other job, a more dangerous job, and she would likely never see him again. She would work the late nights and sporadic shifts of surgery (the oft-repeated motto "Eat when you can, sleep when you can" rose to mind), leaving Alyssa without a sense of stability, never knowing when Naomi would return home. She would have to cope with the exhaustion of her Healing Touch, which left her near to collapsing on a good day; it would make her unable to drive home some evenings, keeping Alyssa alone for the whole night.

What would be the point in having her dream job if she couldn't be with her daughter or the man she loved?

"I won't," she said at last.

"Think about it. It'd be _operating_ again," he sighed wistfully.

"…I've grown to like CIFM," she admitted.

"Or you've grown to like the eye candy there."

Naomi rolled her eyes.

"Will you let that go?"

Gabe grinned like the cat who ate the canary, folding his arms across his chest.

"Never," he sang. "Come on, look at it this way. Here you are, Dr. Naomi Kimishima, the Corpse Whisperer, the Demon Doctor, known for your caustic wit and aloof demeanor. You've fought down GUILT and Rosalia and survived bouts of both. You've worked for everyone from Caduceus to the FBI, lived through innumerable attempts on your life, butted heads with some of the medical world's best and brightest, and solved some of the country's most curious murders. You're famous for being brilliant and downright deadly."

She gritted her teeth, already seeing where this was going.

"Then in walks some skinny, stork-legged pretty boy in a fancy suit and all of the sudden you're sighing and smiling and you've completely lost your wits."

"I believe the morphine has more to do with any current wit loss than my attraction to Little Guy," she muttered cynically, rolling her eyes. "Does my professional skill somehow deprive me of the right to love?"

"No, but given your personality, it's pretty amusing, especially given who _he _is. You should've seen him while you were in the operating room. He was a nervous wreck."

"Mm, he still was when he was finally allowed in to visit," she said, an affectionate smile overtaking her features.

"What, am I the last one to see you?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Great…but here I am, yakking your head off when you probably just want to sleep, right?"

"Nothing slips passed the master of deduction, hm?"

"Yeah, that's me," he faintly chuckled. "I suppose this is the last Saturday we'll spend together, huh?"

There was a hint of regret in his voice, a wistful smile on his lips.

"Make sure to stop by Resurgam every now and then, okay? I'm not the only one who'd like to see your face around here."

"You're always welcome to visit. After all, you still have a key."

He quirked an eyebrow and smirked, cramming his hands in his pockets.

"You sure you want me hanging around the little tyke?" Gabe asked.

"Presuming you can behave yourself, I have no objections."

"I won't make any promises, but hey, I'll see what I can do. Might drop in one night when I've got the time. Maybe I'll even see Little Guy. You know, since he likes me so much," he dryly commented, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Mm, I look forward to it," Naomi replied. "Would you mind bending down a little?"

Gabe stared at her, puzzled, but obliged.

She gently kissed him, eyes sliding shut as if she might recapture something of their prior nights. She could taste the tobacco on his tongue, his stubble rough against her cheek and his nose clumsily knocking into hers as he pulled back a little with surprise. She could smell the liquor on his breath, feel the way his slightly chapped lips lingered on hers before she slowly pulled away with nothing more than a thin smile and a hint of smoke. He grinned, eyes soft and half-lidded, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Goodbye, Gabe," Naomi said with a smile.

"Take care of yourself, all right?"

A full-out grin touched her lips as she realized she would actually heed his words. Two months ago, she would have shrugged off his warning without a second thought. Why would she need to take care when she was in her eleventh hour? But even if she was still terminally ill, Naomi would have listened, for she had people in her life that needed her.

"I will. Try not to get in too much trouble yourself."

"I won't make any promises, but I'll try not to show up on either the list of suspects or the autopsy table."

"That's good enough for me," she replied with a nod.

Gabe grinned, turning to leave.

"Then that's that. See ya."

"Goodbye," she murmured, already shutting her eyes.

And thus it wasn't too much of a surprise when he showed up on her doorstep one cold Saturday night in the middle of November, scruffy and carrying a six pack of beer and one of his old favorite movies, grinning and eager to catch her up on all of the hospital's latest goings-on.


End file.
